


Fa La La La La, La La La Fuck

by BannerApples



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, It's a Tumblr Gift, Los Santos Police Department, Miles is Done With Your Shit, Multi, Other, Others to be Added Later - Freeform, That Christmas AU No One Asked For, Who's ready for shenanigans, not the lspd thats for sure, so make of that what you will, this is super late
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannerApples/pseuds/BannerApples
Summary: The 27th Annual Winter Festival and 3rd Mayoral Gala are fast approaching. Snow is coming down, the people of Los Santos have all suddenly banded together in not knowing how to drive, and Detective Miles Luna does not have time for any shit the Fake AH Crew want to pull. Not after last year's Christmas "present".Unfortunately, the Fakes have a Plan. It involves turning the parking lot of the Mission Row station into a skating rink. Oh, but not just any skating rink - No, this one is for roller-skating.-'Someone put me out of my misery...' A sigh dragged from Miles' lips. "Are you kidding me? I'm not cleaning this up. Fuck you, Kerry."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fakecitylights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecitylights/gifts).



> So... Back in December I told Ghost ( http://sothisissinning.tumblr.com/ ) that I would write them a Roller-Skating AU thanks to some pictures they drew. This was supposed to be a drabble, and now it's grown into it's own little ridiculous thing. Hopefully, you guys like it because I've put way to much time (and IRL money) into this to stop now.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Mission Row Police Station, 04:27 Hours_ **

* * *

 

“ _Luuunaaaaaa_!”

 

“…yes, boss?”

 

“What the hell is this!?”

 

Detective Miles Luna reluctantly looked down at the obnoxiously bright poster that was shoved into his hands. At first glance, it looked almost identical to the flyers and posters the LSPD printed and posted around the city over the past month, advertising the annual winter festival that they sponsored. Except for the rainbow stamp covering where the words “ _Maze Bank and the LSPD present the 27th annual Winter Festival_ ” normally were. ‘ _FAKE AH CREW presents the 27th annual Winter Festival Extravaganza_ ’ stood proudly across the mock poster. The corners were torn where someone had ripped the staples out.

 

“ _Oh, no_ …”

 

“Oh _yes_ , Luna. Guess what you get to do before you finish your shift?”

 

“Boss… I’m already 26 hours in… Can’t I please go home and have a warm meal and a nap first? Or make Detective Shawcross do it? Or even Officer Demarais?”

 

“Nope! Get to pulling those posters down, and _maybe_ I’ll be generous enough to let you nap in the evidence locker tonight.”

 

Miles sighed and grabbed his coat and car keys. Of _course_ the Fakes just had to ruin his day. If they weren’t being legit criminals, they were pulling stupid stunts like this. It was less than a week to the week-long festival. Last year, the event had gone great. Miles figured it was the fact the crew was too busy planning on shooting flares and throwing snowballs in the cemetery’s park to really bother anyone.

 

Though what they did end up doing was no better: a series of races using various “super” cars (which caused no end of traffic problems), and that ridiculous maze using a bunch of electrical components on the Land Act Dam and then _racing across_ it. That one was a _nightmare_ to clean up after. The smell of burnt flesh and hair, the various wastes in the water and rocks, the _unnecessarily large_ amount of used flare casings… Miles swore he would still wake up with the scent in his nose. And then he remembered the neighborhood he lived in and just chalked it up to another night of various gangs and criminal outfits screwing each other over. _God_ , he needed a vacation.

 

Stepping out into the crisp early morning air was refreshing, at least. Time to drive around the city and check every place they had put up posters, and then check the places the Fakes regularly hung out at and make sure nothing was posted there either.

 

Now, normally Miles would just say ‘fuck it’, and let Ramsey and his gaggle of miscreants do whatever inane thing they had planned on doing happen (which, honestly, a good lot of the shit they got up to looked pretty fun. Plus, Kerry had recounted some of his adventures from before he joined the force. Skydiving and dodging jets above a lake in the middle of winter? _Worth it_.), but this year the Mayor had some political function happening at the same time, and it was stressed many, many times, to _not_ let the Fake AH Crew (or any other criminals, for that matter) mess it up. Miles had a sinking feeling in his gut that warned him that they were planned something on par with their ‘heists’. One look at the poster told him all he needed to know.

 

**' _F_ _AKE AH CREW presents the 27th annual Winter Festival Extravaganza! Come join us and our friends in the LSPD for a wholesome week of good fun and merrymaking! Legion Square, December 15th - December 22nd. Activities include skating, caroling, ice sculpting, and lots of games for everyone to enjoy!'_**

 

He did not want to find out how exactly they were planning on doing skating in a place that historically did not see more than a foot of snow total over the course of the winter, and never got below freezing long enough to form ice to skate on, outside of an indoor rink. It would just give him a headache.

 

        It took him the better part of the morning to go around and collect all the flyers in the designated area. All smiles and hiding yawns with the papers every so often, Miles headed to the last spot on his mental list – the Ground & Pound Café just down the block from the station. Total time awake had been just over 35 hours, and he desperately needed caffeine to keep himself moving.

 

        Luckily, or unluckily, this was his last stop. He slips inside the door, and while it’s not quite a traditional coffee shop, the morning rush has cleared so the quick service counter is empty save for a pair of guys quietly arguing. One of them’s got fairly long hair tipped a reddish-pink, and the other is wearing a cowboy hat, but Miles can still see bright green poking out underneath. They’re talking about kicking some door in, and the one not in a hat is arguing that he can’t kick a weakened board in half, how is he supposed to axe kick a door, you idiot.

 

        He heaves a sigh and places an order to the barista, and then goes to the community board in the corner and tears down the three posters. There’s an affronted gasp behind him, and he doesn’t even have to turn to know that Jeremy _Goddamn Monster Truck Little J_ Dooley has a betrayed look on his face. Matt is murmured something beside him, a slight whining “please do not fight the police” but Jeremy is already walking forwards with purpose.

 

        “I will 100% arrest you and take you down to the station on disturbing the peace charges if you take another step, Dooley.” Miles is saying as he turns his head enough to give a deadpan stare. Jeremy stops in surprise. His angry lilt burns into amusement, and Miles _knows_ it’s because he looks like death warmed over, disheveled and one stray breeze from falling over. He needs that coffee terribly. The barista nervously calls out his order, and Miles tucks the papers under his arm and strides past the two to grab it. He shoots her a winning smile and thanks her before he is turning to head out the door and back to his patrol car. He doesn’t stop when he sees the shiny chrome sports car idling beside it, nor does he glance over at its driver while he gets in and puts the posters with the others.

 

        He’s cradling the warmth of the cardboard in his fingers when there’s a gentle knock on his window. Miles closes his eyes briefly and unrolls it the slightest crack. “What do you want, Jones?”

 

        “Why Officer Luna, I just want to wish a good morning to you!” There’s a sly tone to the demolition expert’s voice. “Though I can’t help but notice you’ve got some posters in your passenger seat?”

 

        Sipping at the might-be-too-hot-still coffee, the detective finally side-eyes Michael. “If you ruin this gala festival for the mayor, I will personally walk into your goddamn penthouse, and raze it to the ground.”

 

        Michael sounds almost offended at that. “Why I’d never-!”

 

        He’s cut off by Miles turning on the engine. “I’ve been awake far too long to take any of your shit today. If you’ll excuse me, I will be handing these over so they can be burned, and then I’m going home to crash on my couch.”

 

        Michael is point five seconds away from making a snarky remark about doing more worthwhile things on the officer’s couch, but the window is already rolled up and the car’s put in reverse before he can so much as utter a sound.

 

        By the time Miles finally, _finally_ , gets to leave the station, the air is cold and the sky is getting darker by the second. That coffee had been a blessing when dealing with his boss (who _insisted_ that he stay overnight, you know, they _really_ needed someone to clean up the evidence locker, Luna, you don’t have _anything planned_ , right?) and Kerry’s overly hopeful look (please Miles _please_ do not leave me here alone its _dark_ ). Fortune smiled down because Barbara chose that moment to walk in (fifteen minutes late with a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other) and cheerfully volunteered to clean the locker if it meant Chris watched the desk. His boss sighed and scowled, reluctantly agreeing, mostly because the last time Chris was in the locker he had somehow locked himself in with the keys on the opposite side of the building.

 

        It didn’t take long for Miles to fight evening rush hour to get home, and he grabbed the mail from its box on the way in. He was tempted to just fall asleep on the couch like he had said earlier, but there was a desperate need for a shower and proper food. He dropped the handful of envelopes and flyers on his coffee table and vanished down the hall to do so. Half an hour later, freshly washed and with heated leftovers from three days ago in his hands, Miles turned the TV on for background and went through the mail. Flyer, bill, flyer, bill, bill, flyer, unmarked envelope with the Fake’s logo on it, flyer, notice from his landlord that rent had been due two days ago, another notice from his landlord demanding payment for the faulty water heater that he had spent a year refusing to fix until Miles paid for someone to come himself…

 

        He stopped. Shuffling back to the small envelope, he looked at the green circle and duck and almost cried. It was really not much bigger than, say, a birthday card, and it was thin enough to not be more than that. He carefully slit open the paper and pulled out the folded one within. It was a Christmas card, one of those cheesy ones relatives did with the family all in matching sweaters.

 

        The entirety of the Fake AH Crew smirked up at him. Ramsey was sitting front and center, with Pattillo and Vagabond on either side. Jones and Free were to Pattillo’s other side, and Dooley and Brownman to Vagabond’s. A large decorated tree stood proud behind them, littered with presents underneath. All of them were dressed in some sort of Christmas wear. There was Jack’s usual elf getup, Geoff had a Santa hat with matching sweater on, Ryan was wearing light-up antlers over his skull mask ( _also_ with matching sweater), and aside from Ray, all the others were in flannel pyjamas. The sniper was in the _ugliest_ sweater Miles had ever laid eyes on, and looked immensely pleased with himself.

 

Flipping open the card yielded a neat, looping “ _Merry Christmas from the Fakes!_ ”, and a small note underneath that simply read “ _I hope you know how to roller-skate! <3_”.

 

Miles put down the card and rested his head in his hands, resisting the urge to sob. Why was it always _him_ getting the love letters from the criminals?


End file.
